


(You're) the Measure of My Dreams

by asuralucier



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Banter, Flirting, M/M, Missing Scene, Smoke Break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-04 14:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: "I have no imagination."





	(You're) the Measure of My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/gifts).

“I have no imagination,” Arthur says, looking impossibly attractive with a Nat Sherman cigarette in his mouth and his jacket slung over one shoulder. “That kind of shit used to bother me but now I guess it doesn’t.” 

“All right.” Eames tries to curtail his stare into something not so obscene. It’s a tossup whether he succeeds. “Where is this going?” 

It’s been one of those hard mornings, where everyone looks kind of winded before anything even has a chance to get off the ground. The only person who looks anywhere near cheerful and alive is Yusuf, but the guy is probably high and calling it work. It’s not even eleven, but the vote to take an early lunch had been quick and unanimous; everybody’s cleared out of the warehouse, like a bunch of rats off a sinking ship. 

But Eames has always liked a challenge. Case in point:

“Maybe nowhere,” Arthur snorts. “This whole fucking thing is going nowhere, and Cobb won’t _admit it_ and.” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head and inhales deeply from his cigarette. “Sorry, would you like one?” 

“Sure, if it’s on offer.” Eames says. He watches as Arthur shakes one out for him and holds out the cigarette, along with a lighter. “Have you always smoked, or did I forget?" 

Maybe that’s what Arthur misunderstands about one’s imagination, but for now, it’s something that Eames will keep to himself. That it's not so much about making it up as it is about something else. 

“You probably forgot,” Arthur says. He takes a drag from his cigarette, deliberate and slow. Then he moves to tap the still lit ashes into a garish clay ashtray in front of him. “I don’t blame you.”

Suddenly, Eames gets the feeling they’re having two distinct conversations. Eames also suspects - or rather, knows for certain - that the way Arthur sucks nicotine into his lungs isn’t something he’d just forget. 

Then Arthur says, “I lied. I started smoking after the Emereis job.” 

“Which one’s that?” 

“Jakarta.” Arthur is chatty today, but it’s not as if his being active in Asia is the sort of government secret it used to be. That’s the way it’s always been between them, no secrets, only public knowledge of a sort. “I had to dig a bullet out of Cobb’s leg. Surgeon said nicotine would help with the shakes.” 

“Did it?” 

“I don’t remember.” 

As for Eames, he’s not a smoker usually, but this is turning out to be one of those occasions where it’s probably better for him to make something up as he goes along. 

“And anyway, that wasn’t what I meant when I said you had no imagination,” Eames says. “He always takes things out of context.” 

“I don’t think ‘you’re still working with that asshole stick in the mud,’ really needs any context, does it?” 

Eames raises an eyebrow. “That’s an embellishment if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Or maybe it doesn’t have to be,” Arthur returns mildly. “That’s the other thing about not having an imagination, I find. One always ends up preferring things in real life. Don’t you think so, Mr. Eames?”

Eames finds he can’t really argue with that. But for now, he can think about it.


End file.
